


A Winter's Tail

by esteven



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Javert sees reason, M/M, Madeleine Era, Mon petit pamplemousse, Warhorses of Letters Crossover, hints of Bonaparte, hints of Copenhagen, horses - not centaurs, total crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven/pseuds/esteven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine and an old pony talk about Javert</p>
<p>With thanks to my beta for helping me with Marengo's voice</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Winter's Tail

Where had Toussaint put the _Rambour d’hiver_? Madeleine looked around and noticed the large earthenware bowl filled with fruit through the open larder door. He moved across the kitchen and grabbed several apples. They vanished into the large pockets of his greatcoat. He left the kitchen on tiptoes as if he did not want to be caught by Toussaint. She had a way of guarding her stocks and was not afraid to chide the mayor if she thought he was too free with the provisions. When she had brought him breakfast, Toussaint had informed him to make fresh _compote de pommes_ for dinner. She had muttered something about sausages tonight.

Madeleine reached for his hat, scarf and gloves on his way out of the front door and to mass. It was a sunny but cold December Sunday. He was greeted by various citizens on his way. Ever since he had come to Montreuil he had noticed that during December mass was better attended than in other months. People were preparing for the day when the birth of the Saviour was celebrated. 

A word here, a nod there were expected of the mayor, and he gave his smile readily. It widened when he spied the tall figure of Javert waiting for him. He was less pleased to see that the inspector had no proper scarf about him and still wore his old great-coat, smudged at its tail ends. They greeted each other with formality due to their public meeting.

_“Monsieur-le-maire._ ” Javert took off his hat, showing proper reverence which was belied by the twinkle in blue eyes. Madeleine noticed it with pleasure. He was certain nobody else had seen it because it was only visible to someone who knew how to read Javert.

“Inspector Javert. “ The mayor returned the greeting. “I trust I will see you tonight?” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless something untoward has happened and you need to see me earlier?”

“Nothing that _Monsieur-le-maire_ needs to be alarmed about.” Their gazes met. “Montreuil is safe”. Javert’s lips twitched slightly.

“I have not thought otherwise.” Madeleine was tempted to reach up and brush a stray strand of hair behind the inspector’s ear. It had escaped the simple black ribbon that held Javert’s queue. Instead, the mayor schooled his face into an impassive mask because Monsieur and Madame Batamabois passed him and the inspector on their way into church. “Then I shall be looking forward to your report.”

“And, Inspector…”Madeleine called softly after Javert who had already turned to resume his patrol. “After mass I shall take a walk, this being such an uncommon fine day.”

“It is still cold. May I enquire where _Monsieur-le-maire_ wishes to go?” Javert bowed.

“I was thinking of the paddock on the road to Arras.” Madeleine inclined his head. 

When Javert had first arrived, Madeleine he had feared he would be recognized as Jean Valjean and decided to stay away, to reduce their contact to the minimum. Then he remembered people often did not see what was under their eyes and were blind to the obvious and he had begun to suggest regular and detailed reports; he had asked Javert’s opinion on town matters, had invited him to his home. He had nearly convinced himself that he only did this to keep the enemy under supervision until a night nearly one year ago.

_”The storm is driving the snow across the land. It is still uncommon cold and the streets are frozen.” Madeleine held the greatcoat for Javert but made no move to help him ease into it. “I can offer you my guest room.”_

_“I should not like to impose upon you.” Javert reached for his coat, accidently brushing against the mayor’s hand and looked down. It was the first time they had touched in this intimate manner and their gazes locked. They studied each other. Madeleine licked his suddenly dry lips and watched the inspector’s eyes widen. Javert did not withdraw his fingers. And he had accepted the invitation._

From then on their touches had become more deliberate and more daring.

_Ah! Quel grand mystère! Dieu se fait enfant…_ Madeleine shook himself out of his reverie. He had failed to attend mass with all his heart, but he could not feel guilty about it because surely the Lord saw that he had found love in the most unexpected place, and that it was returned. 

After service he revelled in stretching his legs. He breathed in the crisp air and shielded his eyes from the sun glittering on the snow-covered fields on his way to the paddock. With each stride the burdens of his office slipped from his shoulders and from his mind, as did the memory of the shackles he wore in Toulon where he had only been a number, not a human being. 

His thoughts turned to strong thighs and muscular arms hidden by a police uniform. He treasured the sight of sinewy legs dressed in gleaming riding boots and felt himself flush. The image brought about a stirring in his loins, and he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to contemplate the nightfall in order to distract himself.

He remembered Toussaint’s suggestions for the evening meal. She knew Javert was fond of herb sausages and her _compote_. Madeleine smiled. It seemed that even his house-keeper had developed a liking for the inspector. Javert ate sparingly, but he always did justice to her cooking.

Madeleine was at his destination and rested his arms on the wooden fence. He reached into his pocket for an apple and looked around for the old Arab pony. Maybe it was in the shelter? He scanned the horizon.

“I wonder, did you intend to eat that apple you have in your hand yourself, or might it be for me?” A dark gravelly voice spoke up next to his ear. “How thoughtful of you, Monsieur Madeleine.” 

Madeleine jumped. He turned and felt himself scrutinized by large dark eyes surrounded by long eyelashes. The grey regarded him attentively, looking from his face to the fruit.

“A pony that speaks…”Madeleine whispered, not believing his own words. The next moment the animal butted his head and human eyes crossed to keep focused on its light grey nose.

“We have not been properly introduced monsieur, allow me to name myself: I am Marengo, and I was Bonaparte’s war steed. To be completely accurate I would have you know that I am not a pony, even if I am of a somewhat slender height.” The horse huffed into Madeleine’s face with flaring nostrils. “Really, I should stop talking with you, were it not for the fact that you have been kind enough to bring me that delicious _Rambour d’hiver_ in your fingers.” 

“I meant no offence,” Madeleine stammered. “Why do you speak? Why can I understand you?” Had he caught a cold and was hallucinating in his fever? His heart beat strong and regular. He breathed deeply through his nose and his chest expanded without pain. No, he was healthy, and if his hands were a trifle cold that was because he had taken off his gloves.

The horse took a step back and inclined his head. “Equines have always conversed. I am certainly a horse of letters and my frequent correspondence spans the whole of Europe. “The grey sniffed haughtily and drew back his lips to nibble daintily at the apple. “As to understanding me - have you never heard about the nights towards Christmas when animals and humans may commune?”

“I see.” Madeleine collected himself and balanced the apple on his flat palm. “But why me?” He was curious now, because Marengo did not sound like a horse willing to talk to every Tom, Dick and Harry.

“Ah.” Marengo flicked his tail in much the same manner as humans would wave their hands airily. “The birds and the bees…you know?”

Madeleine shook his head.

The grey took the fruit and crunched down on it. He chewed slowly. “I am told that you always leave crumbs for the birds, have apple and cherry trees in your orchards for the bees. You do not swat at flies unnecessarily, though they sometimes are a pest.” The tail twitched nervously as if to swat at those little beasties. “…and you never forget to bring me an apple or a carrot. I know you as a person who is kind to animals and humans alike.” Marengo nodded gravely. “And for your food, you do not kill with malice and cruelty.”

The mayor felt his cheeks warm. He had not expected words of praise. “Thank you.”

“Has ever anyone told you how becomingly you blush when you are embarrassed?” The grey sounded amused. Madeleine bowed his head to hide his burning cheeks. He re-lived a day two months ago. 

_The house was quiet. Not even Toussaint could be heard bustling about in the kitchen. It was early and Madeleine had woken from pressure to his loins. He squinted through half-opened lids. In the grey early morning light filtering through the curtains he saw Javert poised above him. A hand ran lightly along the middle of his nightshirt. Javert’s splayed fingers cupped Madeleine’s length._

_“Please,” Javert whispered into the mayor’s ear, “let me love you.” His fingers scraped along the inside of Madeleine’s thighs; his touch was gentled by the nightshirt’s material. “Let me love you by daylight.”_

_Madeleine cringed from Javert’s touch. He was not certain if the inspector suspected him of being 24601, a convict from the Bagne of Toulon and wanted to see his suspicions confirmed._

_Had the mayor played with fire when he had courted Javert’s proximity? They generally met in darkness. He always covered his wrists and excused his socks with cold feet. Maybe he had become too complacent because Javert had never forced an explanation._

_“Do not flinch from me.” Javert bowed his head. “There is no reason.” He tongued a nipple through the nightshirt and blew on it. Madeleine trembled from head to foot. He had not counted on such a strong reaction but did not know if it was from Javert’s action or his words._

_Javert’s hand stroked the shoulder along the length of a clavicle, cupped the joint and brushed down the arm. He reached the nightshirt’s cuff and circled the wrist. Madeleine tried to draw away but Javert’s iron grip held him fast._

_If the Lord intended that he should serve additional time for having broken parole, then who was Madeleine to resist. Small dry kisses on his wrist recalled him to the presence of their bedroom. His breath caught, and he stared at Javert, waiting to be humiliated._

_“I did not believe...” Javert squinted at him. “…that man can change. Then I arrived in Montreuil.” He caressed the scars around Madeleine’s wrist. “Soon enough I welcomed your invitations. They gave me every opportunity to observe you, to find proof of my suspicions that you were the dangerous convict I had first met in Toulon.” He moved up to nuzzle the mayor’s beard, his breath moist on Madeleine’s temple. “…and then I observed how the town prospered. I witnessed your charitable work every day. The nuns spoke highly of your support for the hospital.”_

_Javert raised himself up and straddled the mayor’s thighs. His hands on either side of Madeleine he rubbed their bodies together until they touched full-length if through their nightshirts._

_Madeleine felt not only the heat in his groin; he also took courage and cupped the back of Javert’s head drawing him into an embrace, tipping up his chin for a kiss._

_When they broke apart for air, Javert sighed, “I am willing to put my trust in you, Jean…Valjean.”_

_He gently brushed tears from the corner of Valjean’s eyes. “You blush quite becomingly, you know that?” Javert breathed his words into Valjean’s ears in an attempt to lighten the mood between them._

“That apple was completely delicious, a rare treat these days for an old horse such as I, although when I was on the battlefields of Europe it was a different story! Apples by the bushel and all of the best quality! I don’t suppose…?” The grey’s words broke through Valjean’s thoughts.

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course…”He reached into his pocket to produce another Rambo which he held out to Marengo who took it with a graceful flick of his tongue.

“You are still flushed.” The grey regarded him steadily. “You were thinking of a loved one, were you not?” He butted Madeleine’s chin with his nose in the near-human gesture of tipping it up. The twinkle in his eyes was unmistakable. Marengo whinnied softly. “This makes me quite melancholy – it has been such a very long time since I felt the sweet pleasure of a lover. I hope you have many endearments for your love. What do you call her?” The horse nudged Valjean’s shoulder.

“Him.” Valjean considered it safe to speak the truth to an animal, but his cheeks reddened nevertheless.

“Him? Oh, that is so precious.” Marengo flicked his tail. “This reminds me of my own dear Copenhagen. How I loved him. He was Welllington’s war horse and as such our Master’s were sworn enemies; some might say we should have been as well but we were not - we exchanged many a letter. That dear, dear boy! He began as a race horse, but it seems he was not well suited to it, he was a little lacking in speed compared to some others, which made him quite unhappy. Not that I cared in the slightest about his not winning those silly trophies and so very foolish races, such things meant nothing to me. What he lacked in velocity he added in staying power. He assured me of that himself. We were very attached to each other. Ah…the exuberance of youth!” The grey raised his head and eyed Valjean’s still bulging pocket.

“So? What do you call your favourite?” Marengo chomped the third apple. “Copenhagen had many terms of endearment for me, but being English they do not translate very well I find. Dear Napoleon tended to call me _mon petit pamplemousse_ ”

Valjean raised an eyebrow trying to imagine what the inspector would say if he were addressed in that fashion. He failed, so he replied with a straightforward. “Javert.”

“You call him by surname?” Marengo shook his mane dismissively. “You humans have no breeding. That is not the way to treat a beloved. I dreamed that should I ever meet my very dear Copenhagen…” Marengo’s eyes misted over. He blinked. “I would call him ‘my fierce English stallion’.”

"Bien-aimé.” Valjean whispered, feeling melancholy. “That is what I wish to call Javert.”

“Then do it before someone else does.” The grey eyed him markedly. “Nip him at the base of his neck and mark him as your own.”

Valjean was disturbed by the image Marengo’s words conjured up. He was even more disturbed by his reaction. His blood raced from his face to his groin and centred in his flesh, filling and lengthening it. The folds of his shirt rubbed against his sensitised skin. Some of his discomfort must have shown on his face because the horse scrutinized him while it stepped closer again to the fence. His gaze was fixed at Valjean’s loins.

“From your reaction I take it that your love interest has amazing muscle definition, ready and willing to be enjoyed?” Marengo pawed at the snow and plucked several frozen leaves of grass from the ground, making a point of not looking at Valjean. 

“Forgive me for speaking plainly, but nowadays it has become rare for me to talk of such subjects from male to male. “ He chomped carefully. Those few leaves were certainly stringy and dry. “I pride myself on still having a discerning eye for a fine rump.” 

Valjean thought he would sink into the ground. “It is not what you think!” To his own ears he sounded like an idiot, and he was not astonished that Marengo’s neigh sounded like a good-natured if ribald guffaw.

“He has, as you say, amazing muscle definition.” Even though Valjean closed his eyes, Javert’s image was clear before his eyes. He continued, speaking as if to himself. “Javert is younger than I by about ten years. He is taller and wears his dark brown hair in a queue. It shows a few grey strands.” Valjean smiled and thought of this morning. “His polished leather boots are a tight fit and show his calves to much advantage, and he has a way of putting on his long leather gloves so gracefully…Javert in leather.” _How leather trousers would stretch across Javert’s groin!_ Valjean sighed at that image.

Marengo stepped closer, resting his head on Valjean’s shoulder. “There is something about a lover who moans gently to let you know he is aroused.” The grey lowered his voice. “Would he approach you with lowered head to signify submission? Would he wear a leather blindfold for you, something we horses call blinkers?” Valjean bit his lip to prevent a groan. He strove not to give into the feelings Marengo’s words provoked. He inhaled deeply to gather the remnants of his countenance about him.

The grey butted his head gently at Valjean’s neck as if he knew how fragile humans were. Valjean shrugged his shoulder. Marengo had likely experienced man’s fragility on the battlefields of Europe if he was indeed the horse he said he was.

“Dear Copenhagen offered this to me once, and what did I do? I approached him with a crop. My whip came down on his saucy waggling rump. How that mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure excited him, excited us!” Marengo whinnied. “Alas, it was only ever a phantasy. You know, Monsieur Madeleine, it is the one thing I regret: that we never had the chance to meet, but it would have been glorious!”

Marengo pulled himself up to his full 14 hands 1 inch in the light of the rising moon and Valjean saw a horse as proud and fierce as it had been depicted in David’s painting. He noticed how the horse turned his ears nervously and the way his nostrils quivered.

“Another human male is approaching.” The grey nudged Valjean’s shoulder. “Do not let him know of our conversation. Some men have no understanding of these matters.”

“I won’t.” Valjean now heard the noise of boots on frozen ground. He offered his fourth and last apple to Marengo. “It was my pleasure to talk to you.” Valjean recognized the steps now. He turned towards the path and called out for Javert.

“I had been concerned when you had not returned for your afternoon coffee.” Javert approached in long strides, an as yet unlit lantern in one hand.

“There was no need for your worry.” Valjean grasped the inspector’s hand. “I forgot the time. The pony…”he nodded towards the grey and pretended not to hear his indignant snort. “…and I had an interesting conversation.” 

“Had you?” Javert sounded amused and cast an appraising eye over Marengo. “He’s an Arab though, he might take umbrage at being called a pony,” Javert laid a hand on Madeleine’s sleeve. “…even when, technically, he is one.” He scanned the area for movements. “But maybe he looks taller with his mane fluffed up.” The light grey horse in the paddock was the only living being apart from the mayor and himself. 

Javert smiled at Valjean and leaned down to nuzzle the white beard. “It is getting dark and the sky looks as if we will have more snow.” He kissed the mouth opening for him and traced the outline of Valjean’s lips with his tongue. When they had to pull apart for breath, Valjean looked up and met the horse’s gaze. Marengo winked at him, neighing encouragingly.

Valjean reached up and cupped Javert’s face. “ _Mon bien-aimé_.” 

The inspector’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. Then he bowed his head and rested his brow on Valjean’s. They stayed like that for a few moments, inhaling and exhaling in unison, their breaths fogging in the cold air around them.

Javert retrieved the lantern from the rotted tree stump where he had placed it. Valjean gripped it while the inspector lit the candle inside and closed its door carefully. 

Javert accepted the lantern back and held it high enough in one hand to shine on their path. He offered Valjean his other arm. “Let us go home, Jean, where you can tell me all about those interesting conversations.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hoofnotes  
> 1) Warhorses of Letters is a BBC radio4 series about the romance correspondence between Marengo and Copenhagen, the warhorses to Bonaparte and Wellington respectively.  
> [This is the TV trope for WoL](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Radio/WarhorsesOfLetters?from=Main.WarhorsesOfLetters) and  
> [there is even a blog](http://unbound.co.uk/books/warhorses-of-letters/)  
> If you have not heard the first two series and/or read the book adaptation with its oodles of hoofnotes, go and do so.  
> Btw, I have borrowed parts of Marengo’s and Copenhagen’s correspondence
> 
> 2) [A French site about the Rambour d’hiver](http://www.aujardin.info/fiches/varietes-pommes-region-est.php), an apple that was grown in the East and North of France and in Belgium and known since the 16th century. It was harvested and eaten between November and March and often used for pastries. The summer Rambo was introduced to North America in colonial times. In North America, the apple was first called Summer Rambour and Rambour Franc
> 
> 3) I used a little poetic licence when I placed Marengo in a paddock near Montreuil. The grey Arabian was named after the Battle of Marengo (June 1800) and carried the Emperor through several famous battles in which he was wounded eight times. The stallion survived the dramatic retreat from Moscow, but he was captured at Waterloo by William Henry Francis Petre and brought to England where he died at the old age of 38. His skeleton was preserved and is now on display at the National Army Museum in Chelsea, London.
> 
> 4) mon petit pamplemousse – my little grapefruit
> 
> 5) Valjean likely saw [_Napoleon Crossing the Alps_ , a painting by Jacques-Louis David](http://www.google.de/imgres?client=firefox-a&hs=vBG&rls=org.mozilla:de:official&channel=np&biw=1442&bih=826&tbm=isch&tbnid=d3hrW74b03hwQM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marengo_%28horse%29&docid=A_av1mMpj4xBhM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/91/David_napoleon.jpg&w=647&h=768&ei=xAfAUr7HEqWf7AaooICoBA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=4&vpy=169&dur=1836&hovh=245&hovw=206&tx=88&ty=265&page=1&tbnh=135&tbnw=112&start=0&ndsp=41&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:0,i:81)


End file.
